


The Never-Ending Diary Of Remus Lupin, Aged 34 1/2

by WolfAndHound_Archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Humor, Post-Sirius in Azkaban
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfAndHound_Archivist/pseuds/WolfAndHound_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus Lupin's diary during his teaching time at Hogwarts</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Never-Ending Diary Of Remus Lupin, Aged 34 1/2

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Lassenia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Wolf and Hound](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Wolf_and_Hound), which was created to make stories posted to the Sirius_Black_and_Remus_Lupin Yahoo! mailing list easier to find. However, even though I still love the fandom, I am no longer active in it and do not have the time to maintain it. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2015. I posted an announcement with Open Doors, but we may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Wolf and Hound collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wolfandhound/profile).

**Wednesday, July 28th, 1993**

Sirius, 

Damn you for buying me an infinite diary for my seventeenth birthday and naming it after yourself. For half of my life, I've had to unlock it by starting each entry with your name since the password of a magical diary can't be changed. I bet you thought it funny, but you always made fun of my little peculiarities, didn't you? Such as my dislike of mint chocolate and my diary-keeping habit. Such as the dangers my lycanthropy brought to the ones I allowed myself to get too close to. Sirius Black always laughed at danger.

Anyway, I will never be able to afford a new Bernoulli diary on my own and I am stuck with having to think of you every time I open it to try and make sense of my thoughts and emotions. Not that I haven't thought of you anyway in these last few days, in an obsessed, brooding manner that has nothing to do with our school days. I have no choice but thinking of you now, after your escape from what should be the safest prison in the world.

People all think you're mad, of course, and I wish I could believe it too, though there are few things I believe in these days. I went to Lourdes several times with my Muggle grandmother when I was a child, saw the multitudes who pleaded to the Virgin Mary for intercession on their behalf, saw the businessmen who grew rich on their faith, saw the people who returned again and again with nothing for their prayers. My grandmother said that those people received the gift of spiritual healing instead, which was more valuable than mere healing of the body, but I was old enough to recognise disappointment when I saw it.

Neither gods nor demons are going to relieve me of my curse. Did my soul **really** commit so many wrongs during its journey towards enlightenment that I have to do penance by turning into a monster each month? I've lost my belief in the fundamental goodness of the humanity that hates and despises me to the point of hunting me into a rundown cottage in a forgotten corner of Somerset, my only regular contact with wizardkind a Squib farmer, who is as much of an outcast as I. It is my only saving grace that Muggles hereabouts don't believe in werewolves ( if they did, there would be torches, pitchforks and guns loaded with silver bullets. Whether they get consolation from the thought that Sirius Black is insane or that Remus Lupin is an evil, soulless monster, regardless of shape, people will believe anything as long as it gives them comfort and security.

**Sunday, August 1st**

Sirius,

Albus Dumbledore must have cracked under the pressure. He came to see me today, wanting me of all people to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts next year, with the possibility of a permanent job at that. I made every excuse I could think of--made them for so long he must've been thinking me coy--until he told me about what you are after. **Who** you are after.

I begin to hope you are mad after all, because a part of me can't accept that you could do anything so evil as to murder a child. How come you changed so much, Sirius? What did your incapacitated master offer you in return? Wasn't getting James and Lily killed enough for you? Must you have Harry as well?

Or didn't you change at all? All these twelve years I have wondered about the real, quintessential Sirius Black, and if there ever was such a thing. Was it the fiercely loyal almost-brother who thought nothing of risking his life for his friends, or was it the arrogant pureblood who thought nothing of using me to get to Snape? You of all people had no right to pick on Severus for his views; you held the same ones yourself until you met real Muggle-borns at Hogwarts.

It stood to reason that you made friends with James first; he must have been the only one you thought worth noticing. I didn't realise that I, quiet, bookish half-blood that I was, had registered on your mental map until James made fun of my diary. You immediately punched him and then asked me if you could borrow The Man With The Iron Mask. I suggested The Three Musketeers instead and felt rather sorry for you-imagine not being allowed to read Dumas or Verne just because they were Muggles.

Then you betrayed my secret to Snape, and I thought then that nothing could hurt more. I'm not bitter for not being made Head Boy, James did a much better job than I could ever have done. The hurt came from realising that I'd been foolish to trust you--and in the end I was foolish enough to give you the chance to try again. But that time, twelve years ago, it wasn't my trust you betrayed, but the one of your best friend. My uneasy suspicions had proved true.

I can't bring myself to believe that you were cheating us all, or I won't know what to think. If I believe in anything, I have to believe that you were once good, or I shall go mad myself. And I need to be able to function normally, there's work to do. Remus Lupin might shrink from confrontations, but I'm not going to shrink from my duty.

Yes, I accepted. I will teach Defence Against the Dark Arts for as long as Dumbledore wants me. I do think he is barking mad for wanting me--I change each month, my rival for the post hates me, he's going to work with me and would rather see me fail, and I don't even know yet if I'm going to be any good as a teacher--but I see that I may not be the right person to judge the sanity of others. After all, I am the one pouring out my thoughts in a diary named after a lost lover and traitor to the Light, feeling that it gives me some connection to the man you once were, trying to imagine the reactions of friends long lost or dead. You'd roll your eyes and shake your head in exasperation, James would smirk and pat me on the head in a mock avuncular manner, and Peter would grin faintly and say "Remus, that's--er, wonderful".

Compared to the three of you, as good as dead, dead, and dead, I don't know where I get off complaining about fate giving me an unfair hand to play. None of us got the kind of life we talked about in the dormitory after lights went out in the evening, in the days when we were the golden boys of Hogwarts and thought ourselves heroes and soldiers of the Light for ambushing Slytherins in the corridors. We said we'd always present a united front against the rest of the world, one for all, all for one. We swore by the memory of Godric Gryffindor that we'd be brothers and true friends forever. We promised each other that we'd touch the stars. Whether rock singers, Aurors, curse breakers in the jungles of South America or globetrotting hunters of treasure and magical creatures, no future was out of our reach. None of us planned on becoming anything as prosaic as a schoolmaster, but then again no one of us planned on dying young.

**Monday, August 2nd**

Sirius, 

Full moon tonight. That barmy old codger is a master manipulator, tempting me with free Wolfsbane potion every month for as long as my employment lasts, in the time of the month when the moon affects me the strongest. In exchange, I only need to let Snape record my reactions to it. During almost thirty years, even when we were roaming the Forbidden Forest, I have dreaded the change and the pain and hated what I would become. You, Prongs and Wormtail became used to seeing me transform, but you never felt was the change was like from within. Sometimes I think no one can understand that except for another werewolf, like those I meet in Dartmoor every full moon.

You never saw the werewolf shelter the Werewolf Registry Office keeps there, since it was created by popular demand after a werewolf went on a rampage in Yorkshire some eight years ago. I wish I'd never have to see it either, but it is a legal necessity for unattached werewolves. That doesn't mean we have to like it. Had you been there, you and James would have understood why I gladly accept the thought of becoming Snivellus's guinea pig.

The cells are tiled but still stink of old blood, though not strong enough to register for a human nose. And what a human nose can't smell doesn't exist. There is silver netting around the cages and shock-spelled iron bars--I made the mistake to bite at them once--and enough silver everywhere to pacify you and turn your stomach. And that is for the easy cases. They say that the difficult ones get dosed with aconite and silflake and are shackled to the floor. They lead us naked inside the cages and leave us alone until sunrise. Then a cursory examination by a bored Healer and some quick healing spells, and we're rushed out of the building, without daring to look anyone in the eye.

If the Wolfsbane potion is properly tested, I could help change all that in the only way I can. The research is well beyond the initial stage; they only need to find a way to stabilise the active parts and bring down the price, which is still exorbitant. Fudge might not be interested in making it available to lycanthropes for free--there would be more political money in handing out free Shrinking Solution to weight-obsessed witches--but just to sell it in apothecaries at the price of a sleeping potion would change the lives of werewolves forever. And if the only way I can do it is by kissing the arse of Severus Snape, I will do it without a thought.

Two hours until sunset. Time to grab toothbrush and broomstick, cast a Disillusionment Charm and leave for Dartmoor. I wish I didn't have to. Wish I already were at Hogwarts.

**Friday, August 13th**

Sirius,

I have just owled two rolls of parchment, detailing my plans for the next school year, to Minerva McGonagall. Since I was appointed so late, the textbooks are going to be the default ones--Quentin Trimble's books. Could be worse: the ones they had last year were two parts exaggeration, one part outright lies. Homorphous Charm, indeed. I have elaborated the scheme a bit and added a few of my own research subjects, and it will have to do. With some planning, I shall even be able to make up for last year.

Full moon was dreadful. My memories of it are dim, as usual, but there's only one way I can explain the unusual ferocity. In some way, the knowledge that my mate was loose somewhere in the country must have remained with me. Apart from a couple of deep bites I had burns on my face and a loose tooth when I transformed back into human; I'd been snapping at the bars again. Needless to say, the wardens and Healers are becoming suspicious. I **must** stay in control, or I'll find myself in the queue for the shackles and silflake department. Could Snape let me have Wolfsbane potion the next week if I grovel enough?

**Friday, August 20th**

Sirius,

Made my weekly visit to Rowan Brooks, the farmer, to renew the spells that keep his maize and apples pest-free and his hogs and poultry healthy, collecting the usual eggs and apples as a fee. Both of us probably wonder how the other manages to get along with life, the Squib and the werewolf. If I could choose I wouldn't give my magic away, not for anything in the world, not even for being cured, but I am sure Brooks thinks that the stigma of being a werewolf far outweighs the perks of magic. If any other wizard had been interested in giving him a hand from time to time, I doubt he would have chosen me. He has never introduced me to his Muggle wife and his two children, to avoid questions, and I have never asked. That way we maintain the status quo and the fiction that we are friends.

We discussed you a bit as well--I think no one expected that you would be able to stay out of the Ministry's clutches this long. I know how you did it, of course, and I know that you are banking on my being too much of a coward to tell anyone about your Animagus form. It would be easy for me to do the right thing, as easy as an anonymous letter to the Auror Headquarters. But is it really the right thing? You betrayed your friends, and so in turn I take revenge by betraying the person I've loved more than anyone else. An eye for an eye and the world would soon be blind. I should like to think I am better and more loyal than you have shown yourself to be.

I don't suppose the Aurors would believe me anyway. They must be drowning in owls reporting sightings of you by now, and there are more credible tales than mine on the Letters page in The Quibbler. I will be at Hogwarts soon and Harry will be protected by the only living individual who knows your secret. Dumbledore assures me that as long as he stays with his family in Little Whinging, he is going to be safe from Dark wizards.

Speaking of Hogwarts: I could kiss Severus Snape, and Albus Dumbledore to boot. One of the Hogwarts owls was waiting as I came back from the farm, carrying a parcel with a large bottle of Wolfsbane potion. Two thirds of cup a day to be taken without sugar, one week before full moon, stay away from alcohol. The taste is horrible, of course--trust Snape never to brew me anything that tastes good--but I have no doubt that it is going to work as I hinted that I would notify the WRO about the experiment. If we could reduce the price and get Ministry subsidies, maybe they'll be convinced to start supplying it to the other werewolves. As for myself, I have already caught myself speculating about what it will be like to be a normal wolf without the urge to tear through the countryside, searching for human flesh to bite and rend.

**Wednesday, September 1st**

Sirius,

Wolfsbane potion was successful. Watched for black dogs on Platform Nine and Three Quarters until eyes watered. Terrible migraine.

Have found empty compartment at end of train. Am going to sleep now.

\- Later - Excuse the smudges in the margins; I've just fed a slab of chocolate to five teenagers in shock. Excuse my illegible handwriting; I don't know if I am shaking with the movements of the Hogwarts Express, with the aftermath of facing a Dementor, or with anger.

If it hadn't been for you, those Dementors wouldn't have been here. Dumbledore sent me a ticket for the Hogwarts Express, but I thought I was going to watch out for you. As I didn't see any signs of you on the platform, I hoped my watchfulness wouldn't be needed once the train was in motion. The earth might cease to turn, but nothing would stop the Hogwarts Express, right?

Wrong.

I woke up in a pitch-dark compartment with children speaking in half- hushed, frightened whispers and had an experience I never want to repeat-facing a Dementor within thirty seconds after waking up. It was a good thing I conjured up an Ignis Solidus to give some light, instead of using my wand, or I would never have dared look Alastor Moody in the face again. Imagine what he would have said if one of his old crew had tried to drive off a Dementor with a Lumos Charm.

The cold surrounded me almost too fast and the voices began to echo inside my head, memories converging into one single moment of horror:

["Remus, my boy... there's been a most deplorable accident...Moony, I'm sorry... I didn't think he'd be in danger...just wanted to scare him off our backs once and for all..."]

["Remus, child, you need to be brave... Sirius was the traitor...Caught in flagrante delicto... Taken to Azkaban for his crimes..."]

I'm never going to get used to that feeling, much too close to drowning in icy water. Even when I'm prepared for it, the panic is always lurking under the surface. Then, taking hold of the memory of the day I first held the newborn Harry James, I summoned a Patronus (perhaps it isn't so strange that I've never been able to use memories of our relationship to drive off Dementors). I'm the first to admit that it wasn't much of a Patronus, but it did its job. And when I turned around, I saw the happy memory, thirteen years older and unconscious on the floor.

It was a good thing I'd bought some chocolate on King's Cross, though I still feel a bit light-headed. I've been to dispatch an owl to Hogwarts and asked Madam Lufkin with the lunch trolley to make an emergency tour with free chocolate frogs. Students seem happy enough about the extra treat, but I have a feeling that with Dementors on the doorstep, they will begin to detest chocolate soon enough.

We should be at the Hogsmeade station any minute now. I'd better step into the compartment again and see if the children have changed into school robes.

\- Even later - Great Scott, I can't remember when I had roast beef last. Whatever the actual teaching will be like, the transformations might be easier on me here. The bloodlust is worse than ever when I haven't been able to afford red meat. The feasts of Hogwarts are welcome changes from my usual tea of tinned beans, I can tell you, though it is humiliating to realise how low I've sunk.

Poppy hasn't changed much, looking me over at the dinner table, promptly adding two slices of fried liver to my plate, stating that I need it for my blood. Severus curled his lips in contempt when I helped myself to my third lamb chop, murmuring that as far as I was concerned, cooking the meat was a waste of time. Not much change there either. You know what he was like in school: poorer than I, prouder even than you. Born in one of those pure-blood families where there's not much to eat except for your pride in what you are. Not like yours or the Malfoys, who supported Voldemort for what he could give you, but doing it because there seemed to be no other choice.

Dumbledore insisted on a chat after the feast, and I steeled myself for the questions I knew he would ask about you. It turned out not to be anything of the sort, just a conversation on the NEWT classes. Defence Against the Dark Arts had been a bit of a joke for the last few years--not that he said it outright--and did I have any ideas for making sure that the seventh-years were up to the tests? I suggested study groups for the NEWT classes after dinner, knowing full well that I signed my evenings away. Dumbledore nodded and twinkled and said, "Excellent idea, my dear boy," adding that it would only be fair to accompany these new duties with monetary compensation. By the way, he had sent Hagrid to the Gringotts office in Hogsmeade and arranged for a part of my salary to be paid out in advance, and did I want a nightcap before turning in?

My rooms are splendid. Lovely soft bed, bathroom a little shrine to luxury-well-lit, decorated in warm colours, a comfortable-looking bathtub sunk into the floor. I was too tired to draw a bath and had to do with a shower (with adequate water pressure in the pipes), but if I survive this first week of teaching and tutoring the NEWT classes I am going to indulge next weekend. I need to go to London anyway since I owe the Ministry five Galleons for use of its facilities last night.

Too tired to write more. Good night.

**Friday, September 2nd**

Sirius,

Went down to Hagrid's cottage after dinner to ask if there were any Kelpies on the grounds this year and found him in tears, much the worse for drink. Stayed for as long as I could, but I don't think anything I said made him feel any better. The first day, too. A Hippogriff mauling inattentive students is bad enough, but when the son of an Upstanding Citizen and a Pillar of the Magical Community is involved it turns very ugly. Malfoys could be redefined as Trouble.

I have picked the younger Malfoy off Harry's back once already, not that I think Harry needed the help. He (Malfoy, not Harry) was absent from classes earlier today, and the Slytherin third-years were in uproar. Hagrid is blaming himself, of course, but I have my suspicions. It's terribly unfair of me to judge the boy before I have seen him in class, but the cynical part of my mind tells me that my hopes are in vain.

Felt insensitive to draw attention to myself and go on about Kelpies, when Hagrid was so unhappy. Now, what the hell am I going to use for my first practical lessons? There should be some Red Caps in the dungeons, at any rate, if I get the time to go down and have a shifty and manage not to get lost. The underground corridors are moving around like earthworms.

**Wednesday, September 8th**

Sirius,

I'm okay with the practical lessons--Ariadne Sinistra told me over dinner that a Boggart has moved into the robes cupboard in the staff lounge. Need to speak to Dumbledore now before someone decides to do the school a favour and removes it.

Thursday, September 9th Sirius,

Almost spit out my coffee in shock when I read The Daily Prophet this morning. Some Muggles have seen you close to the school, and everyone is busy speculating on what you are looking for. There are days when I'm glad that they don't know the entire truth. Emergency meeting with the staff immediately after classes.

Have spent the evening exploring the secret entrances into Hogwarts with Argus Filch and Mrs Norris, adding wards and alarm charms to every one. He knows about four of those we discovered in school, and I did the other three once I was sure that he and his cat had retired for the night. The one behind the large mirror on the third floor has caved in, but I warded it all the same. What I wouldn't give to have our map again and James's Cloak. I wonder who has it now. Dumbledore, most likely. God knows where the map is.

**Saturday, September 11th**

Sirius,

Saturday evening at last. What a week! I've been so busy planning lessons and warding secret tunnels that I haven't had time to write properly. Think I deserve to feel decadent and subversive for one evening, as a reward for surviving. I am out of practice at dissipation, so it's a bit lame--a hot bath scented with sandalwood and lemon, candles floating in the air, a glass of Chardonnay, and since Rolanda Hooch is away for the weekend, she kindly allowed me to borrow her officially secret, the illegally charmed CD player. Come on, what are we to do, the level of background magic at Hogwarts is far too high to make it work the usual way. There is a pile of brand- new, defiantly non-academic books on the floor, waiting for the moment when I have stopped dictating to my quill.

Checked my Gringotts account in the Hogsmeade office yesterday and almost fainted when I saw the balance. Can't remember when I last had two hundred Galleons in my vault. Flooed to London in the morning and spent the day shopping.

I feel a bit guilty now for blowing money on things I don't need for survival-a few of those new compact discs since Rolanda doesn't care for jazz, some historic mystery novels, a bottle of good wine. Why didn't I put it by for leaner times? Then again, I now have a proper job that pays decently, and I could even afford some new robes. But you were right about me and robes; whenever I went to buy clothes, I always ended up in Flourish and Blotts.

What about the job? I've discovered that I enjoy teaching, that Rolanda Hooch has taken me under her wings, and that Neville Longbottom's greatest fear is Snape. You might remember Rolanda; she was in the seventh year when we started Hogwarts. Played Chaser for Hufflepuff and was recruited for the Holyhead Harpies after leaving school. And the Boggart lesson with the Gryffindor third-years--I can't help grinning at the memory even though I know it's wrong. Snape is convinced I did it to humiliate him, but how was I to know that he had managed to make such a lasting impression on the poor boy? I was more concerned with my own Boggart, wasn't I?

I definitely should have practised first. What would the students have thought if Sirius Black had burst out of the cupboard, wand in hand, ready to attack Harry? Or if Sirius Black had been lying dead on the floor? My greatest fears these days are so complicated that I could confuse a Boggart single-handed. I almost felt a sense of relief at seeing it turn into the old familiar moon, though coloured with apprehension. Does this mean I don't take you as a serious threat? I ought to, as a rational human being (even if 'human being' is a courtesy title). If I had been the one to go after you instead of poor Peter, you would have killed me instead, lover or no. Wouldn't you, Black? Or is it a sign of my weakness that I even pose the question?

**Tuesday, September 14th**

Sirius,

Note to self: Never assign essays for homework to more than ten classes a week. But if I don't, how will they learn things on their own? If I do, how will I have time to grade them properly, patrol the castle like I promised myself I would do and manage to catch a few Red Caps for my next object lesson? Teaching isn't as easy as I thought the first week.

There are some essays that must be written. I am not going to let Draco Malfoy off easily just because he asked to be excused from the Boggart lesson. Wand arm still not working properly. Says he. I've let him compensate by writing ten inches more than the others, after I made sure that he knows how to do a Dictaphonous Spell on his quill. A pity, really. It would have been interesting to find out about the greatest fear of a Malfoy. I hope ten inches is enough.

Will I ever get time to write myself? I haven't even written down my first impressions of Harry, something I should have done immediately.

If I am to be honest, I am a bit hurt that he doesn't seem to remember me. A little bit disappointed as well. He's different in class from how James and Lily were, it seems he has to make more of an effort to learn. If I must write it plain, he is not quite as bright as his parents. Part of me can't help asking how much of it that stems from the Muggles he is living with, they can't have encouraged him the way I know that James and Lily would have done. Another part feels guilt for even thinking such hostile thoughts. What I would really like is to keep him after classes on Thursdays or invite him into my office, ask him about his life and his friends, offer to help him with his homework, but I know very well that I can't. I'd create unrealistic expectations. I am still werewolf WQ- 459 and I won't be allowed to take a more active part in his life, neither by the Ministry nor by Lily's sister and her husband. And I am his teacher; I have to maintain at least a show of neutrality.

Went down to Snape's office to ask him whether he could brew some extra-strength Wolfsbane for the next full moon--the pull of the moon is especially strong during the equinoxes. "I shall take your advice on potion-brewing, Lupin, as soon as I see your credentials from the Royal Society of Alchemy and Magichemistry," was all he deigned to answer. I replied that I at least was an expert on lycanthropic transformation, and things got a little heated. Thank goodness for Poppy Pomfrey, who merely nodded and said she was going to stock up on disinfecting potions, just in case.

A blue moon on the autumnal equinox, I worry about this transformation. Still, it isn't as if I could apply to the universe for a month off. I need to arrange some kind of schedule with Snape that allows us to see as little as possible of one another, as he has made it perfectly clear that he has no wish of socialising with me. And let's face it, why should he?

**Friday, October 1st**

Sirius,

I have to re-evaluate Snape and his skills as a potion-maker. Could kiss the man if the shock wouldn't kill him--I don't feel any worse than I usually do. The changes in March and September usually take it out of me.

Someone also told Albus about my post-lunar cravings. When I came back from seeing Poppy early this morning there was a pot of hot chocolate waiting on my desk together with breakfast. You know the kind I like--the rich, creamy, burnt-umber variety made with real vanilla, the one that pours like lava and sensually invites you to forget what your parents taught you about licking your cup, the one that reminds me about the time we spent in a Barcelona after Lily and James returned from their honeymoon. Their treat. Prongs joked that he didn't want you underfoot while getting acquainted with his new wife and Lily threatened to perform Severing Charms on your intimate parts if you didn't leave poor Jim alone, but I knew better.

The Dementors must have pounced on those memories as soon as you entered Azkaban. There was a café in the old town where we used to go for chocolate after picnicking on bread and tomatoes, hard white cheese, olives, ham and a bag of ripe figs, drinking the young purplish wine straight from the bottle--we had to empty it because you wanted to use it for sending a message like you had read about in Muggle books. Your laughter would echo off the stone walls of abandoned churches as we made our way back to the small hotel, high on the alcohol, theobromine and sugar, falling into each other's arms as soon as we had locked the door. We made love during the siesta like the locals did, with the windows open and the green shutters closed, for two weeks pretending that the war in far-away Britain didn't exist, that Voldemort could be defeated just as easily as Franco had been ousted, that we were normal twenty-year-olds insane with love and lust and youth. It was the best gift Lily and James could ever have given us.

**Saturday, October 10th**

Sirius,

Very productive week. The lesson with the Red Caps I managed to catch in the dungeons was a success, thanks to Albus's knowledge of Mermish we persuaded the Merpeople to let me borrow one of their Grindylows, and the two Slytherin second-years I had for detention did a rather good job with cleaning and filling the large glass tank (took them five trips down to the lake). Since I'm going to do Kappas next, I finally feel in control of my lessons.

After yesterday's staff meeting, Rolanda suggested that I join some of the teachers for a drink at The Three Broomsticks. Does that mean I have been accepted by the others? Maybe I should have gone, but I had work to do. Kappas are Japanese and I won't be able to find one around here, and that means my students have to learn about them out of books. And that means I need to check what books they can use in the library. I chatted a bit with Harry's friend Hermione Granger, too. She takes her studies seriously, that one... I hope that Harry and his other best friend, Ron, can make her loosen up and have a laugh as well.

**Thursday, October 21st**

Sirius,

Rolanda put a note in my pigeonhole in the staff lounge, asking if I wanted to help her supervise the students in Hogsmeade during the Halloween weekend. Being the only teacher below fifty except for Snape must get lonely at times. She even says I am welcome to celebrate Christmas with her and her younger sister in Birmingham. We'll have to see about that. I haven't yet sunk so low that I need the pity of others.

Now that I have access to the Wolfsbane, I might be able to help out with the Hogsmeade weekends. The potion has been a lot of help and I can't see why the Ministry wouldn't want to finance the research. The Central European authorities do, after all. Mentioned it to Snape and he said it is only to be expected--it doesn't pay off to be soft on half-breeds. I find myself agreeing with him. He wouldn't believe it, but I feel tremendous gratitude towards him. Since he isn't a werewolf I find it difficult to express what a difference it makes to be able to curl up and sleep through the night rather than run mindlessly through the woods or try to break out of a silver cage, only feel minor trepidation about the pain and a revulsion, more laughable than anything else, for the thought of eating raw meat.

**Tuesday, October 26th**

Sirius,

What would be worse, going or not going to Hogsmeade? I could check if the oak was still there--you know, the one on the east side of Hogsmeade Road, in the field with the hawthorn hedge. It probably is, with other couples sharing their first kisses behind it.

First Hogsmeade weekend of our seventh year. We had managed to repair our friendship again, after my stubborn silence during two terms and almost the whole summer. But almost as soon as we were on speaking terms again, I had realised that something was different. I was oddly thrilled when you wanted us lonely bachelors to go to Hogsmeade together--Prongs had finally persuaded Lily that he was a changed man, and Wormtail was going to Madam Puddifoot's place with a Hufflepuff girl. It wasn't a date, naturally, since we were just two good friends stocking up on quills, chocolate, Hiccough Sweets and new socks, talking of the NEWT subjects we were taking and what Peter might like as a birthday gift. You insisted on buying me a birthday present as well despite my protests that it was too late and too much, laughed when I thumped you after finding out that you had spelled the diary with your name.

It was raining in a most unromantic fashion, too, and it was just as well that neither of us minded getting wet. I had started to think longingly of dry clothes and perhaps a kitchen raid to get some hot tea, when you decided to pull me through a hedge into the field and into the shelter of an oak tree that probably saw Hengist found Hogsmeade.

Everything felt oddly right even if the day had just taken a turn towards the unpredictable. Your hands were cold as usual when they held on to mine--you kept forgetting Mrs Potter's woollen mittens and mufflers in the dormitory. But for the first time, brazen, outspoken Sirius Black was at a loss for words, whilst quiet, thoughtful Remus Lupin had so much to say that I stuttered over the words. The light in your eyes made me want to tell everything at once, about how my throat dried out whenever I heard you laugh and that my stomach had started to flutter whenever we met in the Gryffindor boys' bathroom. I wanted to tell you about the reaction I had when you hesitantly offered to rub my back after the last full moon, but I didn't. An erection isn't after all the same thing as butterflies in the belly. I had even grown used to your obnoxious habit of rocking your chair and I loved that impatient shake of your head when your fringe got into your eyes, and there behind the tree I reached out, without stopping to think about it, and brushed aside the sodden strands.

Memory plays strange tricks after more than a decade, but I don't think I've made up the taste of your mouth, a rather unfortunate combination of Peppermint Toads and clove fags. Or the knot of worry in my stomach when I decided to try the tongue thing I had read about in my cousin Mireille's romances, and the relief when I realised that you liked it, that it felt better than anything in the world. Or how we anxiously kept up appearances at dinner, just as if we hadn't snogged ourselves breathless behind a tree.

I waited until James and Peter had fallen asleep that night, then padded across the room to your bed, finding you awake like I knew you would be. More kisses along with the first, hesitant touches. It might have been the days of free love, but we were stuck in a fairly conservative boarding school in the middle of nowhere and neither of us knew exactly what we should be doing. I didn't, at least. But hearing your voice, husky with desire, whispering first a silencing charm and then my name, feeling your hand slip inside my pyjama trousers, caressing and exploring, somehow unlocked the knowledge inside me. Though yours was shaped different than mine--and when hard, curves to the right in a rather ridiculous fashion, if memory serves--that, at least, was something I had done before.

**Sunday, October 30th**

Sirius,

I didn't go to Hogsmeade after all. First there was that Grindylow to take care of. I used to keep fish when I was a child--the only pets I was allowed after I was bitten--and this is much the same, though not even the catfish made faces like a Grindylow can do. Second, there is a heap of homework waiting to be graded. Really must learn how much homework I can assign classes. A few of the Ravenclaws, Hermione Granger, and the Head Boy, Percy Weasley, are always writing too much, which means I need to spend extra time correcting them. At least those are the original ones; it borders on mental torture to read the rest of the more or less identical essays with more or less amusing grammatical errors. I have to take regular breaks, walk to the window and stretch my back in order not to fall asleep. It is a beautiful day out there, though rather windy. I need to go out for a walk, but that brings me to the third reason I needed to stay behind. Snape said he would bring the Wolfsbane potion before lunch.

A cup of tea would be nice now, though what I really need is strong, black coffee. Unfortunately there is no way I can get it except for going down to the kitchens. Well, as soon as I have had my daily dose of potion, I am going for a bit of fresh air. It may be sooner than I thought--are those Snape's footsteps in the corridor? Have to go and have a look.

\- Later - I have had to revise my first impression of Harry. He may not have James's effortless capacity for learning, but he seems much wiser-- uncannily so for a thirteen-year-old. For instance, he seems to have a sixth sense for when grown-ups are lying to him. He has had too much of lies and half-truths, I daresay. It isn't altogether good: he won't like it when he finds out that I've been keeping things from him.

Anyway, he was moping around in the corridors alone, with his friends all in Hogsmeade, so I invited him in for a cup of tea and a chat. He confronted me about why I hadn't let him have a go with the Boggart, just like James would have done if anybody had thought him a coward. I don't think he realises how significant it is that his greatest fear is of being afraid. He really is a true Gryffindor, sometimes so alike James--from what I heard from the other teachers, he seems to have just the same knack for getting in trouble--that I sometimes can't bear to look at him. Perhaps it is well that we only meet in classes. It won't do to have a teacher and authority figure suddenly burst into tears on him.

**Monday, November 1st**

Sirius,

I have failed. I promised myself that I could keep you out of the castle, away from Harry. Halloween made it quite obvious that I can't.

The castle is buzzing with rumours, and I don't think anyone has slept at all. The students would rather discuss you in class than take notes on the ethical implications of the Imperius Curse or how to defeat Kappas or deflect Furnunculus curses, and I've had to remind them several times that it isn't my job to teach them whatever Dark Magic you had used to get inside the castle. I expected the Slytherins and the Ravenclaws to scowl, but even the Hufflepuffs looked disappointed.

I still have no explanation of why you tried to break into Gryffindor Tower while it was empty, every single person in the castle at the feast. People seem to want to explain it away with your insanity again; clutching at straws, in my opinion. You were sane enough to break out of Azkaban, weren't you?

Fawkes has delivered a summons for tea with the Headmaster, and I have no choice but to go. I've failed in doing what I had promised myself to do, keeping you out of the castle, and he will be in his right to be disappointed in me. By rights I should tell him how I think you manage it, but I can't bear the thought of seeing him so disappointed in me, knowing that I have betrayed his trust.

\- Later - Sitting in Dumbledore's office has always felt odd--one part safety and calm, one part uneasiness and suspense. You never know what he's about to spring on you until you are seated in the visitor's chair.

"If you would only trust yourself half as much as others do", Dumbledore murmured as he levitated the teapot. It is easy enough for him to say, not being the one with a guilty conscience. I don't know that he needs to be this excessive in his trust in me, either. The Headmaster is desperate, or he has really cracked this time--he actually suggested I patrol the halls in my werewolf shape! Never heard of a more half-baked scheme in my life! The man is a Gryffindor all right, or else he is mad as a hatter.

I pointed out to him that my sense of smell and hearing would grow gradually stronger during the week while my ability to see colours decreased--lost Gryffindor no end of points during Potions lessons, that--and that I had already been around to the entrance of Gryffindor Tower to se if I could find out anything, but that the scent was getting cold and faint. I was completely honest, too, and didn't have to get into explanations of all the reasons why I don't trust myself when it comes to you. Would I give in to the siren call, become the Dark creature everyone already believes I am, join your side if you asked me? I'd like to believe that I wouldn't, but my conscience points out that I have always been good at self-deception. Trustworthy or not, this is personal now. I may have failed Lily and James and Peter, but you won't make me fail Harry. I may do it my own way, but I'm not going to fail him.

**Wednesday, November 3rd**

Sirius,

Is it my imagination, or do people grow silent when I enter the staff room? Does every conversation end with a sidelong glance at me? Snape keeps asking acid questions on whether I have any ideas on how you broke in yet, and this time I fully agree with him. What is the use of being a werewolf if you can't use your abilities in a constructive manner?

Had tea and Ginger Newts with Minerva this afternoon before I went on to strengthen the alarms and wards on the secret entrances. Now try to get inside the castle, Black. I'm ready for you. Fortunate indeed that I didn't throw away the diary you gave me--twenty year old remains of your magic are better than nothing. The wards would work even better if I had some of your blood, but that's bordering on Dark magic and I have a feeling that some people here--no names--would love to tell on the untrustworthy werewolf who knows far too much for his own good, never mind that some people know far more about the Dark Arts than I. No, that was inconsiderate of me. I will swallow my pride and see if he has spotted anything I have overlooked. Hope Draco Malfoy hasn't complained to his Head of House--I couldn't help it, I had to congratulate the boy on the miraculous recovery of his wand arm.

**Thursday, November 4th**

Sirius,

Found another note in my pigeonhole: Dear Remus, would you have tea with me tomorrow afternoon or at your convenience? Yours affectionately, Poppy Pomfrey. Oh, all right. All seem to be wearing their best pairs of silk gloves these days.

This is the first time I am relieved about turning into a wolf. Though I am still myself, things aren't as complex, emotions are flattened out and at the same time more primal. For one night at least I won't have to analyse my thoughts, emotions and fears. Thank goodness I made Dumbledore see sense about his mad idea--the storm is howling between the turrets, breaking branches in the Forbidden Forest, throwing itself full force against windows that suddenly seem ridiculously fragile. I am going to allow myself to take simple pleasure in knowing that I am myself in a different shape, perfectly suited to curling up on my bed with my nose in my tail.

**Friday, November 5th**

Sirius,

Next time you break in before the full moon, could you warn me beforehand so I can protect myself? Had I known, I would have asked Snape to brew the potion stronger last week, this batch wasn't strong enough to allow me to keep my mind. It was all I could do to make a slapdash attempt at charming the doors and windows and putting up some silencing spells in that last moment of lucidity between sensing that something was wrong and being overtaken by the change. I sincerely hope that nobody heard me, or that any noises that penetrated were attributed to the storm. My alter ego could smell that my mate had been in the castle, and as there was no way I could get out and search for the source of the scent trails, I maimed myself again. My rooms were in such a state that Minerva summoned a couple of house-elves for cleaning.

Poppy came to see me in my chambers this morning and promptly forbade me from teaching today. She couldn't forbid me from working, though, and I have lived through worse changes than this. Have been lying in bed, reading up on curses and correcting essays, stopping from time to time to wonder if Snape has murdered any of the students yet.

**Monday, November 8th**

Sirius,

Rolanda told me about the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch game when she came to sit at my bedside, about the Dementors showing up and Harry falling from his broomstick. And I had no idea. As soon as I was allowed, I went to the hospital wing to check on him, but he had already been released. Rolanda says Gryffindor has never before lost a match when he has been Seeker. He must feel truly miserable about it, even if he were only half as passionate about Quidditch as James. If I had only known--I could have visited him during the weekend, interfering hypochondriac Healers be damned. I could have brought him anything he wanted from Hogsmeade, as he isn't allowed to go himself; told him that it isn't his fault that the Dementors affect him that way. Surely a teacher is allowed to do that?

I have checked my Gringotts account, wondering if I could get Harry a new broomstick. I could have paid for repairs, but it seems that the Whomping Willow reduced it to smithereens. A new Nimbus is out of my reach, unfortunately. The least I can do for the boy is teaching him the Patronus charm and giving him my last free evening. James's son is worth it.

**Friday, November 12th**

Sirius,

Just came back from afternoon tea with Hagrid. People have finally stopped inviting me for tea, thank Merlin--I had to put people on hold, otherwise I would spend all my spare time drinking tea and listening to people telling me that there was nothing I could have done to stop Sirius Black from entering the castle. If they only knew that I am alone in knowing your secret and have kept it to myself against my better knowledge. Even when I'm full of tea and scones I feel like an inadequate protection for Harry, and those feelings won't dispel easily.

Not that tea and sympathy wasn't welcome today. I had been down to the dungeons before, to confess to Severus Snape that something must have been wrong with the Wolfsbane. He took offence at that--I am afraid he took it as an accusation. Telling him I had cancelled the homework he had set was another one of those experiences I would rather have avoided, but I had promised the students. At least **he** didn't offer me tea.

I understand quite well why he feels spiteful and suspicious, but there are times I want to shake him--people's lives are at stake here! Does he think I am going to let you into the castle just so you could go and kill someone, and James's son at that? What does he think this is? A schoolboy prank? ... No. I am not going to dwell on that again. That is over and done with long ago. Water under the bridge.

Anyhow, I needed the warmth and comfort of Hagrid's cottage, needed to sit down and talk while scratching Fang behind the ears. Hagrid was always good to me, better in fact than many human wizards. I really needed him to clap me on the shoulder and growl, "I won' 'ave 'im killin' yeh as well!" Needed to remember the unconditional support he gave us when the rest of the Order became aware that you and I were a couple. Even if they were quite liberal for those days, it was quite a mouthful for some of the older members to think about gay relationships and werewolves in the same context. Most of them resolved it by politely pretending that we were just flatmates and "very close friends", but Hagrid was always and totally on our side with a heart bigger even than his body.

All those people that have invited me and talked to me, making it clear that I still have their support, are a great comfort to me. I might not deserve it, but there are still good people in the world, people who care. A wonderful cure against premature cynicism, though I feel awfully sentimental. And today I am joining the others at the Three Broomsticks. Work can wait.

**Wednesday, November 17th**

Sirius,

During lunch, Madam Pince was gracious enough to point out that I forgot to return the books on demons and Dark creatures of the Far East to the library last week. Dear Merlin, not again. I am bound to get blacklisted like in school--or worse, since I can't rely on the Black charm as a backup weapon any longer. Madam Pince might not have smiled when you tried to jolly her along, but she relented once or twice and let me off without a fine.

I spent the evening tutoring the sixth-years--it's a stroke of luck that I won't be teaching Harry the Patronus Charm until next term. Right now I don't know how I will cope with everything, but I have to. Perhaps it will help to have others around--I don't know how I survived with a minimum of human contact before I came to teach. Having Rolanda for tea or playing a game of chess with Flitwick in the staff lounge always relaxes me.

**Friday, November 26th**

Sirius,

There, now I'm properly acquainted with all of Hogwarts' teachers. Sybill Trelawney was the last one and introduced herself impressively enough after the staff meeting after dinner. At least I supposed it was meant to be impressive, but one doesn't need to have Second Sight to realise that I have led a hard life, all one has to do is look at the scars in my face and the state of my robes, or to reason that if I haven't killed myself by now, I am likely to hang on to life for a while yet. I wrangled out of her offer to crystal-gaze for me by saying I needed to check up a few books in the library. I hope I'm not too bad a person for trying to ensure that our meetings are few and far between.

No, Sybill will hardly make me change my general fatalism--whatever happens, happens. You tried to make that point to your parents, when you were fighting with them to let you take the new elective Dumbledore had introduced, Muggle Studies. Whatever talent there was for divination in your family passed you by, though I always suspected that you failed your OWL out of spite. You paid more attention to James's Muggle Studies books anyway.

**Thursday, December 2nd**

Sirius,

Rolanda has repeated her proposal that I come and visit her and her younger sister Geraldine in Birmingham, tempting me with the fact that Geraldine plays the Wunderhorn with the WWN swing band (I've despaired in my attempt to make her see that swing and cool are two different creatures.) While it'd feel good to get away from Hogwarts for a while, I can't help feeling like an intruder. Christmas is a time for family after all, and I am going to be an outsider wherever I go. But I wouldn't intrude that much, would I? Full moon being on Christmas Eve, it would just be for a couple of days.

**Friday, December 10th**

Sirius,

Minerva wanted to know whether I would be staying in the castle over Christmas and smiled approvingly when she found out that I had made other plans. Are all staff members except Snape conspiring to make me have a life?

The simple truth is, I don't know if I can stay here with the memories. James had left his Invisibility Cloak with us before going on holiday, we had the dormitory to ourselves, and I think both of us knew that come New Year, we would have been as close as two persons can get to each other. Not that the thought didn't scare me despite the scrupulous preparations I'd insisted on--a certain amount of rule- bending had been involved, permission to visit Hogsmeade didn't cover Apparition to Glasgow to get supplies last time I checked. Nervous though I was I can recall every step on the way to the Prefect's Bathroom-sweaty hands slipping on the neck of the champagne bottle, the great tub filling up way too fast, painful realisation that soap isn't a good lubricant. Objectively speaking it probably was a disaster, so it may just be my memory playing tricks again when I remember it as a beautiful experience. Better than kissing with tongues, in fact. But I am grateful that Lily scared Moaning Myrtle out of grassing on us.

**Wednesday, December 15th**

Sirius,

New Grindylows are beginning to hatch down in the lake, and the Merpeople have said that I can keep the one in my office if I want it. The problem is that I don't particularly--catfish and guppies are better suited to my temperament. I've decided to brush up my German skills and send owls to the headmaster of Durmstrang and to Vasile Kovacsi, who teaches Dark Arts and Creatures there. Since Grindylows aren't indigenous to the Continent, they might be interested to get one in exchange for a Pogrebin.

**Monday, December 20th**

Sirius,

Can hardly believe it's nearly Christmas and the last day of term. It came none too early, I'm going to need some time for myself in order to make new plans. I have some ideas already--perhaps I can get Duncan Scrimgeour to come and talk to the fifth-years about what Auror work is like and about Unforgivable curses to the NEWT classes, or I could tempt some of Gringotts' curse-breakers. I took it up last staff meeting--how can we expect Muggle-born students to make good career choices without proper information? I was trying to make them see that it is a question of equity, though I had no real support except from Donata Pinkstone, the Muggle Studies teacher.

Rolanda says the teachers are going to have a small party this evening and invited me specifically--in her exact words, "Don't you dare chicken out, Remus Lupin." And in fact, I don't think I will chicken out. Wine, cheese and good conversation doesn't sound like too much of a hardship, and the last time I was in Hogsmeade I found a set of dress robes at Gladrags' Wizardwear, simple, understated and a bargain. It would be a real shame if I never got to use them.

\- Much later - The party wasn't too bad. It didn't take long for the conversation to turn to other subjects than students and teaching and the Black situation, and that was when the fun started. It was ages since I had proper conversations with Arngrim Fairfax and Donata Pinkstone-- Fairfax used to be one of my favourite teachers, and Pinkstone is involved in her cousin's Muggle support campaigns. Always a good idea to catch up with the developments in Muggle relations, though Hypatia Vector and Rolanda were frowning a bit at my souring the Christmas spirit by talking politics. Minerva and Flitwick popped in on their way to Hogsmeade, about to pick up Cornelius Fudge, and even Snape was there. I suspect it was to make sure that I was a good boy and didn't drink anything stronger than Gillywater, but he needn't have worried; red wine doesn't agree with me. I thought briefly about going down to the Three Broomsticks as well, but a party sans Fudge is probably more relaxed. He might not be quite as reactionary as certain society segments, but I don't think he would voluntarily drink with a werewolf.

**Sunday, December 26th**

Sirius,

I had to insist on being allowed to walk to Hogsmeade instead of Flooing from Dumbledore's office. Poppy has been a bit wary of letting me go and already talked me out of Apparating, all because I was rather out of it when she came to knock on my door at dawn. She didn't let me check on the wards before I left, either, so I just have to put my faith in the last-minute touch-ups I did before Christmas. And would you believe she actually followed me down into the village? While it's very sweet of her, it makes me feel like being eleven years old and having my mother following me to the Hogwarts Express, inquiring if I had my sandwiches and pumpkin juice, all my books, my wand and enough clean pants, loud enough for a gang of older Slytherins to hear.

But the oak and the field do look the same.

So now I am in Birmingham. We've taken a short tour, and the city hasn't improved much since last I saw it. The channels do look nicer these days, and I spotted quite a few interesting Balti restaurants, one of my weaknesses though I've never mastered the art of using only a piece of naan bread as a fork.

It seems I worried needlessly again, by the way. Rolanda's sister Geraldine and her girlfriend Amrita have pulled out all the stops to make me feel at home. Even their charming but undisciplined Crup has cheerfully attempted to show his goodwill by trying to steal every pair of socks I brought with me. Rolanda and I took it out for an evening walk, keeping up the pretence that it was just an uncommonly spirited Jack Russell terrier.

Perhaps it was just my loneliness that made me a misanthrope before I came to Hogwarts--am rediscovering the schoolboy who liked a good joke and spirited discussions, something I thought I had lost. There are good people in the world too. I should have an elderly female relative stitch those words on a wall hanging for me, put it where I can see it from my bed.

**Tuesday, December 28th**

Sirius,

I take back everything mean I ever said about Birmingham. We were at the Art Museum today and had a delicious afternoon tea once I managed to pull myself away from the Impressionists. We are doing a few of the Tolkien landmarks tomorrow--were you ever aware that one of your favourite authors had grown up in Birmingham? Perhaps I had better not think about it or I'm going to imagine you enthusiastically investigating every tree in Moseley Bog, hands full with author biographies and Lord of the Rings.

Geraldine and Amrita invited a few of their friends for a party tonight, and I ought to get ready, stop brooding and see if I can do anything to help out in the kitchen. Who would have thought it, Remus John Lupin is transforming into a party animal.

**Wednesday, December 29th**

Sirius,

Bugger, bugger, bugger. Why didn't I see **that** coming?

Rolanda and I went out alone tonight to give Geraldine and Amrita some time for themselves, found an Indian restaurant that played jazz music. As I was picking the coriander leaves out of my chicken and red lentil balti--I used to give mine to you and then had to ward off your kisses--I suddenly realised what I heard her saying, with the kind of brave, brittle voice I never thought I would associate with brisk, no-nonsense Rolanda Hooch.

I think I handled it rather badly at that, mostly out of shock. How was I to know that she fancied me? I am a prematurely old, rather nondescript fellow with no idea of Quidditch League results or the rules of Quodpot, my grasp of modern music stops some time in the 1950s. Besides, she knows I am a werewolf and that usually puts paid to closer relationships. What does an attractive, striking-looking, tomboyish woman like Rolanda see in me?

Jesus Christ, I can't sit here and write while she's doing who knows what. As if I didn't know that offering to "just be friends" feels like a slap in the face--really brilliant, Lupin. In some way I have to fix this.

**Sunday, January 2nd, 1994**

Sirius,

Rolanda and I came back to Hogwarts yesterday and immediately got an update on the Black situation. How the hell have you managed to procure a Firebolt for the boy and what have you done with it? How did you get your hands on it?

I took the Floo from The Three Broomsticks to Quality Quidditch Supplies, but all they could tell me was this: some days before Christmas, they had received an Owl Order for a broomstick, to Mr H J Potter, care of Hogwarts, to be paid from vault 711. I don't recognise the number, and the goblins' lips are sealed, as usual. They wouldn't do more than politely but rather smugly inform me that it is one of their high-security vaults. We used to have an ordinary vault in common for our household expenses, but this isn't it. That vault wouldn't have held enough for a Firebolt, anyway--I asked about the price. Blimey, you were never one for half-measures.

**Saturday, January 8th**

Sirius,

Why is it that as soon as you actually need a Boggart, you can't find one for your life? I have searched the castle for two days, asking all the ghosts for help. Nearly Headless Nick is always willing to help former Gryffindors, The Fat Friar would help anyone, and I was always on good terms with The Grey Lady. I even went out of my way to look for The Bloody Baron, but no one had seen or heard anything. I started to fear I would have to cancel Harry's Anti-Dementor lesson.

Enter next fact of life: Start searching for something else and you find what you were looking for in the first place. I had given up hope and received grudging permission of Filch to look in his filing cabinet for the Marauder's Map when I realised that one of the drawers were rattling in a suspicious manner. Yes!

No map, however. Never mind. Maybe I will find it the next time I am searching for clean socks.

The Boggart seems happy enough in the desk cupboard I cleared out for it. Rolanda shook her head as she came to fetch me for our scheduled session of Firebolt torture (figuratively speaking, of course), and said that I kept weird pets for such a nice bloke. I replied that I like pets with a personality (first time we have been at ease with each other since you-know-what.) But the broomstick still hasn't reacted to anything, neither tests for simple jinxes from the Quidditch rulebook, nor to spells straight out of the Necronomicon. We will find whatever you did to it, however, it is only a matter of time. Am keeping ink and parchment at my bedside in case I get a brainstorm during the night.

For goodness' sake, I was supposed to write about Harry and his first anti-Dementor lesson, not blather about broomsticks or maps. The lad shows a real talent for Defence Against the Dark Arts--he produced a spectral Patronus on the third try. Amazing, really, considering that he can't have that many happy memories to feed it. I know it is unrealistic to hope that he will be able to produce a true Patronus anytime soon, but I keep hoping for it. It takes so much out of him that I wonder if I'm doing the right thing, but no one should have to hear his parents dying in his head, again and again. Stupid he isn't-- he must've been putting two and two together, because I'd remember if I'd told him that I knew you in school, or about you and James being best friends. Something smells wrong and I ought to investigate, but there's hardly enough time in the week for teaching, let alone for testing Firebolts or having personal problems.

The situation with Rolanda still feels awkward--I ought to have handled it better. I offered to do the honourable thing and leave for Hogwarts before New Year, but she told me not to. Said that would only make things worse, and I suppose she was right. What do I know, I still feel completely out of my depth. Is it because I never thought that anyone, except for crazy Sirius Black with his werewolf fetish, could like me in that way, or does it always feel like this when you have to turn someone down?

**Monday, January 10th**

Sirius,

Gryffindor third-year classes are tense. Harry, Ron and Hermione are at war over the Firebolt--it seems she was the one who told Minerva about it. It is an admirable thing to do, I don't think I'd have had the guts to do the same in her position, but telling Ron and Harry that she did the right thing isn't very popular right now. It's too bad you don't know; you might get a couple of laughs out of being able to estrange Harry from a friend.

Written several letters this afternoon--one to the Loch Ness team, asking if anyone would be willing to come and tell the third-years about the most famous Kelpie of Scotland; one to the Auror HQ, sounding the waters for interested people; two to Durmstrang (my infamous Grindylow letters are finally finished). I should just have time to run up to the Owlery before I have to go to the evening's tutor group.

**Wednesday, January 20th**

Sirius,

My diary-keeping habit is slipping, but there are so many other things to do that the free time slot hardly makes any difference. Teaching classes, tutoring NEWT students. Patrolling the castle, teaching Harry the Patronus Charm, researching anti-jinx tests. Figuring out a safe way to send a Grindylow--it's going to need a large tank, food and fresh sweet water. At least Kovacsi says sending a Pogrebin won't be a problem.

Honeydukes had late opening hours yesterday, and I took the chance to stock up on chocolate and Butterbeer. Harry deserves anything that can cheer him up. I thought about cancelling the anti-Dementor lesson next week--full moon again--but he has made such progress that I can't let him down. It has to be enough if we keep the lesson in my office, I can lock myself in immediately after he leaves.

Harry isn't the only one who needs cheering up. I made a spur-of-the- moment decision to invite Hermione for a cup of tea in my office as well, since she has been looking downcast lately. I had been checking up spell books in the Restricted Section--after all, it might take powerful Dark magic to interfere with a broomstick like a Firebolt-- and she was the last in the library, as she always seems to be these days. Her classes must be taking their toll, but she still had enough energy to ask how the testing of the Firebolt was proceeding. And frankly we are running out of tests-the blasted thing doesn't react to anything we have done to it so far. I reached the far end of the Restricted Section in my search for broomstick magic today, and on Saturday I will pay a visit to the Library of St Brigid the Bluestocking in Oxford. Of course, one of the brightest students ever to attend Hogwarts, tutored by the most powerful Dark wizard of a century, would probably have other tricks up his sleeve, things you can't find in books in self-respecting, law-abiding libraries.

**Friday, February 4th**

Sirius,

Couldn't sleep tonight, so I made myself useful and did a surprise inspection of the Astronomy Tower. After shooing couples off to bed, I stepped out on the battlements, thinking to sit down for a while, smoke a fag. A bad habit, I know, and I thought I had kicked it for good, several years ago. But it gives me some semblance of quiet.

On midnight in February Orion stands over the lake, stirring up the Milky Way with his club. Without thinking I followed the line made by his belt downwards, the way one teaches first-years, until I found your namesake. Your parents named you aptly--after the chieftain of stars, peerless in all aspects, fierce and brilliant like lightning. It makes one wonder why Cornelius Fudge has authorised the Kiss in your case. I know you irritated him even back when he was a busybody official in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You couldn't have been any different from him had you tried, Trainee Auror with over-long hair, a big mouth and a lack of proper wizard pride, the scion of one of the oldest pureblood families of Great Britain with ancestors from the days when the Romans ruled, who had chucked everything Fudge could only dream about out of the window.

I can't bear to think of you without a soul, even after what you did. I have had nightmares about Dementors clamping their jaws to your lips and about the fire slowly dying in your eyes. I can promise you one last friendly favour--I'd rather kill you myself than let that thing happen, if they get their hands on you. Don't misunderstand me and call it mercy, but the thought of it makes me feel physically sick.

Harry doesn't feel the same. He sees things in black and white like any teenager would do, but since you never gave him the chance to get to know you, I should say he has a good cause for it. Nevertheless, that blind hatred--"He deserves it," he said yesterday, without faltering--disturbs me. There was so much love in James and Lily, there has to be some in him as well. But I keep forgetting; he isn't thinking about the doting godfather, who used to change into his Animagus form to entertain his godson-Harry liked to sit on Padfoot's back and pull his ears even more than he liked to tug at your sideburns-but of the traitor and spy who betrayed his parents.

There isn't a trace of magic on that blasted broomstick, and we have tested every twig. I am probably blushing as I write this, but we even tested for things out of the schoolboy repertoire, like Pincushion and Woodworm hexes. It makes no sense, but I know you are involved in it, in some way-sending the boy the best broomstick money can buy would be just like you. Rolanda raved about it but didn't see anything wrong with it as Harry was flying. I promised to keep an eye out during the game tomorrow, just in case. Imagine, this is going to be the first time I see Harry fly.

I had better try to get some sleep, I won't be much help if I fall asleep in the stands tomorrow morning.

**Monday, April 18th**

Sirius,

Quidditch finals over, but I have new concerns. The Gryffindor NEWT group did written mock exams this evening, all giddy and boisterous about winning the Quidditch Cup even after a weekend of celebration. Had to keep moving between the desks to make sure they were doing their job. Then I thought I caught a whiff of Harry's scent off the team captain, and it was enough to make me pause at his desk and stare. Maybe it is a coincidence that he was doodling Snitches in the margins of his test paper and smelling so strongly of Harry. But would that kind of scent linger after one of those team group hugs? Why is it stronger on Oliver Wood than on the Weasley twins and the Chasers? I can only think of one explanation, and I don't like it at all.

Curse you, Sirius, you ought to be here. This is your job by rights, glaring at this burly Quidditch jock, demanding to know his intentions towards your godson, telling Harry he is much too young to be having an affair with an eighteen-year-old. It is your job to care for him, make sure he doesn't get in over his head.

You would probably shrug it off. "Pure-bloods start young," or whatever it was you said when the girls were horrified of Narcissa showing off her flashy engagement ring to all the Slytherin girls and pouting about having to sit her NEWTs when all she wanted was to marry her beloved Lucius. Lily slapped you for being such a chauvinist pig--or was that the time you opened the door for her? It gets hard to remember after all these years. I should have known by then that you had several other family values ingrained in you. Stabbing your less pure-blooded friends in the back, for one thing.

I'm furious with you, with Wood, with Harry, and there's not a single thing I can do about it. Where have I been all year, hankering after days past, trying to keep the distance that would be appropriate for a teacher? Damn all this professorial neutrality, Harry doesn't need more teachers, he needs family. Is he seeking Oliver's affection because he feels neglected or is it just youthful curiosity? I can't talk to any one of them about my suspicions without revealing that I have an abnormally strong sense of smell one week a month, and then the cat will really be out of the bag. All in all I'm glad I won't be the one to give Wood a pass or a fail this year--I might give him a bad mark out of spite.

**Thursday, April 21st**

Sirius,

This evening, after our last Patronus lesson, Harry asked rather hesitantly what you should tell a friend of yours who was seeing an older bloke. I never knew that people still used the "concerned friend" ploy, it's old as humanity itself and so transparent it is painful to see.

I let him go on for a while without telling him to pull the other one, and soon enough the "she" became an "I". Harry was hardly aware that he had let it slip, and begged me not to tell Minerva once he realised. Bless the lad, he was worried that Oliver would not be allowed to take his NEWTs if it comes out. I had to tell him that Oliver would get into a lot more trouble than not being allowed to do NEWTs if this went on, since Oliver was of age and he was not. All I wanted to do was to first grasp him by the neck and shake him like a misbehaving puppy and then pull him into a hug, and in the end I took him to my office for cocoa and biscuits and waited for him to become a bit more forthcoming.

Well. At least Oliver hasn't done anything inappropriate--at least Harry doesn't think he has. It isn't the first time in my life I wish I for a talent for Legilimency. He says they haven't tried more than kissing and holding hands (I never thought I would be happy that Hogwarts offers so little privacy), so no great harm has been done. I offered my opinion when Harry asked for it--that if Oliver truly cares, he will be able to wait until Harry turns sixteen--and otherwise kept quiet. Harry is not a child any more and truly hates to be told that he isn't old enough, but at the same time he looks slightly awkward when he talks about it, like this is something too big for him to handle.

I did tell him that it was quite normal for him to fancy his Quidditch captain--Quidditch and Oliver having made him someone to reckon with in his own right, given him recognition through his own efforts--but that if something felt uncomfortable, it probably wasn't a good idea. It seems he took my word for it, like I've been able to inspire at least some kind of trust. But this isn't my place--I'm encroaching on someone else's territory, stealing a piece of Harry's heart that was never mine to begin with. Still, somebody has to care about him. His relatives clearly don't.

Harry finally made his own decision, the correct one at that. I walked him back to Gryffindor Tower to avoid him getting into trouble with the security trolls. As soon as the full moon is safely behind us, I'll talk to Oliver. At the moment I don't have more energy for handling teenage romances.

**Monday, May 2nd**

Sirius,

I caught Oliver after the NEWT group today, as soon as I could stand it after the change. He was rather suspicious about my motives at first--I'm young enough to remember what it felt like to have teachers prying, sticking their noses in things that weren't any of their business--and I had to explain about how I knew Harry's parents and I was concerned about the boy and so on. And I was lucky; he understood and respected my points. Don't know what I would have done if he hadn't. Applied the thumbscrews and threatened him and Harry with the wrath of McGonagall? A crude solution, but probably one that works where all other methods have been tried. Still I wonder if I did the right thing. I am keeping too many secrets as it is, I can't be their confidant as well and I'm certainly not the right person to grant Harry and Oliver permission to exchange owls during the summer.

I do think he really likes Harry, though. He's not stupid and if he applied himself to his NEWTs with the same energy as he plays Quidditch, he could have a brilliant career. And he is more mature than one would first have thought. James would have liked him. Perhaps Lily too.

Work still takes a lot of time, but I'm beginning to slowly recover. My students are mostly going to revise for exams next month, and I'm rather looking forward to leaving the Kelpie lessons to someone else. Ogilvie will be arriving tomorrow evening, and I had to arrange for a carriage for him since I won't have time to go and meet him myself. I had a third, quite understanding owl from him, saying that no, I hadn't actually answered that letter, but that was all right as he also found paperwork to be hell.

**Friday, May 4th**

Sirius,

Fergus seems an agreeable bloke, though he has such a thick Scottish accent that I can barely understand him. He is Muggle-born, so he understood and laughed when I suggested we have him dubbed for the benefit of the students. Says he is going to stay over the weekend in order to go hiking in the mountains. On top of all that, he seems to be a natural at teaching as well, though the Slytherins can be difficult at times. I still felt bad about not being able to meet him yesterday, so I suggested earlier today that he come along to the Three Broomsticks after the staff meeting. He accepted.

Good Lord, I'm realising how much I've missed talking to someone who isn't either a student or a teacher. Fergus seems to be single, as he has no problems with staying over the weekend, and he laughed again when I said that I frankly didn't understand why some young witch hadn't nabbed him before now. He really has a nice laugh, something I have noticed that very few people have. Feels like too long since I laughed myself, Mr Ogilvie is a burst of fresh air in that aspect. It was raining when we left the Three Broomsticks at closing time, last of all, and when I heard that he too liked being out in the rain, I realised that he could be a kindred spirit as well.

**Sunday, May 8th**

Sirius,

Fergus is indeed the kind of sound, wholesome bloke I thought was extinct. He has been staying over the weekend, explicitly in order to go hiking. Today he asked if I would accompany him, and I still don't know what made me accept. I managed to have a rather good time, in spite of wet and blistered feet (am soaking them in a footbath with Healing potions as I write). We saw a couple of eagles and deer and had an extraordinary luck with the weather. Sky was the deep, clear blue you only get in the spring, the air like mineral water, heather flowers blushing and small lochs glittering in the unexpected sun-- stop this, Lupin, you are sounding like a schoolboy essay. It couldn't have been more romantically Scottish if Robert Burns had written the libretto and Felix Mendelssohn had written the score (Fergus asked who I was talking about. He can't be all perfection, I suppose.)

We found a Muggle village in one of the glens and stopped for Sunday lunch and a few pints at the pub. Strange how the Muggle world, which most wizards see as something dull and dreary and not worth attention, appears like a fairytale world at times. No preconceived notions to conform to, no prejudice against creatures like me. I realised on the way back to Hogwarts that I had seldom felt this happy, though that may have been the roast beef and the bitter talking.

Then Fergus began to whistle Loch Lomond. The idiot. As if I needed to be reminded that me and my true love will never meet again. I tried to stop him when I couldn't bear it any more by asking why he had dragged me along. If anything, the walk had made me realise that I'm sadly out of shape, and I knew he was holding back so I could keep up (I later calculated that I must have walked twenty-five miles that day). Fergus just laughed and said, "Oh, it was the Flying Mistress who gave me the idea. Said you spent far too much time on your own."

Definitely going to kill Rolanda. Matchmaking ought to be made a capital offence.

**Wednesday, May 18th**

Sirius,

It's been a while since I wrote. It feels adulterous somehow, writing about a love interest in a diary named after a former lover. I can afford a new one now, but for some reason I've got used to this one. Two thirds of my life is recorded in it.

Fergus asked if he could help with the NEWT groups when I told him about them on Sunday-the Sunday before last, that is, after our hike. He invited me for a spot of scotch in his rooms once we came back and I thought to decline first. Then I suggested that he bring the scotch and come to my rooms instead, if he was man enough to survive the view of my bare feet and calves.

Seems he likes a challenge, as he arrived while I was soaking my feet. We had quite a nice time together, talking about literature (not a book person. Definitely not a book person.), famous monsters throughout history, fishing (I'm lucky Minerva's nephew took mercy on me and took me salmon-fishing--I caught one, though small, so I've kept my honour), music (he likes Johnny Cash and Van Morrison, which is a good start). Neither of us felt hungry enough to eat a full Hogwarts dinner on top of a filling lunch, so we asked the house- elves for a lighter meal.

While we were eating, we somehow got personal. Did it have anything to do with sitting squeezed together on the tiny couch Hogwarts had provided me with? The fact that he had that freshly-showered, soapy smell I have always found attractive? The way his eyes met mine longer than a straight man would have endured? His smile when he said that other people really didn't think it was as much of a hardship to spend a day in my company as I seemed to believe? Whatever the reason, we kissed, with food still on our plates. While I have made do with my own hand for the best part of a decade, there is no compensation for a good kiss. Gladly took Fergus's suggestion of letting go a bit. Kisses moved from good to excellent.

He did come to the NEWT groups, by the way, provided some help and stayed to clear up the classroom afterwards. Stayed in my rooms until late at night, and I must have done a shoddy job with marking homework and preparing lessons during his final two days. I walked him down to Hogsmeade Wednesday evening, exactly one week ago, and it felt like he took a piece of me with him when he Apparated away.

He has sent me an owl, and I don't know if I should answer--I've dithered about it for two days. Finally, my reason kicked in. He is a sweet, caring lad, but so much younger than I, in spirit if not in years (I can almost hear James's voice saying, "Moony, your spirit is older than Count Saint-Germain."). He isn't you, not by a long shot-- doesn't share your passion for cracking intricate Daily Prophet crosswords or for shouting at literary characters. Does he share your non-prejudiced views of werewolves?

And all the same I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be a man, not just a genderless teacher or a colleague, what it felt like to have sexual feelings. I know I brood over things far too much, and Fergus might be the kind of person who could scatter my morose thoughts. But if a relationship has nothing more than that going for it, he would be better off with someone else. I would be using him to forget, and not using persons as means to an end is about the only moral rule I haven't broken. I should like to keep it that way.

**Tuesday, May 23rd**

Sirius,

Fergus came for a surprise visit yesterday, so close after the full moon that I panicked. The students are beginning to get used to the fact that one of their teachers is a bit sickly, but Fergus still has no clue. What kind of a callous blockhead am I, flirting with people who have no idea of what I am? I don't even have a clear memory of what I said, but I **think** I let him believe that the stress of preparing the examinations is getting to me again. Now I feel like a damn twit and a coward for not being able to tell him the truth from the beginning. Sorry, love, you have been snogging a werewolf. Not a thoughtful thing to say. There is a reason creatures like me shouldn't let go.

I don't think I would have managed to confess by myself if you, James and Peter hadn't confronted me about what I was, second year at Hogwarts. There's nothing much I can do about my tendency to withdraw, to wait for the clouds to disperse or lick my wounds waiting for them to stop hurting, rather than causing myself more pain by creating a conflict. Life has become something that happens to other people while I'm watching, and I can't bring myself to care.

At least I have a rather good idea about the kinds of exams I'm giving to the third-years, and planning them flows smoothly. At least it's nice that only my love life is in a shambles.

**Friday, June 2nd**

Sirius,

Minerva has been asking what textbooks they should order for next year. Next year--I can't believe I've lasted this long. Well, with exception for breaking down around Easter and causing that terrible fuss. Maybe I will become the first werewolf that has managed to keep a proper job for a long-term period.

Fergus is back at Loch Ness. We parted "as friends", but it's unlikely that we'll ever get to share anything more than that. After all, we all know what "let's just be friends" means. Rolanda groaned loudly when she heard of it, having encouraged me to go for it for a month already, and swore she would never set me up with someone again, but I think it is for the best. Not that werewolves mate for life, but I don't think I will be able to give anyone else what I gave you. As for telling him what I am, I don't think I can take that risk.

**Friday, June 10th**

Sirius,

Last day of the exams--finally, some rest. Finally I don't need to house Boggarts in my desk; not that it was a nuisance, but I need the space. I've even discovered a use for Pogrebins. Flitwick borrowed it for his practical exam, as an antidote against over-zealous application of Cheering Charms.

Things are still far from good. Buckbeak's appeal is due this afternoon, and I have a feeling that it's going to be very summary. Walden Macnair is here, after all, and keeps stroking his beloved axe in an ominous manner whenever he sees me. My record isn't completely clean, either, but that man is awful. It is one thing to work as an executioner, another to obviously enjoy it.

The fate of Buckbeak and Hagrid worries me, but the possible consequences are even worse. Harry, Ron and Hermione are bound to be sneaking out to visit them, without knowing that you might still be lurking somewhere on the grounds--I knew I should have confiscated the Invisibility Cloak as well. Harry has it for sure, even if I didn't see any evidence of it in Snape's office. I ought to go and stop them before they rush into something--no, I have a better idea. Where did I put the map?

**Saturday, June 11th**

Dearest Sirius,

Do you remember when we were twelve years old, reading Arthur Conan Doyle together in my bed and trying to solve the mystery before Sherlock Holmes did? Do you remember how everything suddenly came together in the last few pages?

It's come together now, finally. And to think I used to be so proud of besting you at those mind games, pitting calm logic against your intuition, when I couldn't even deduce from the evidence twelve years ago that my lover was innocent. Some investigator I am.

It nearly broke my heart to see the wreck you'd become, after I'd run head over heels to the Shrieking Shack with my conscience screaming in my ears, to see the mannerisms of the man I used to love in this half-crazed, broken fugitive with deadened, haunted eyes. You didn't look that emaciated in the Daily Prophet pictures, Sirius, were they starving you in Azkaban as well? Why didn't I stand up for you? Why didn't I send you food, chocolate and warm clothes for birthdays and Christmases instead of trying to forget that you existed--I should know what North Sea winters are like after three months of Quintaped studies. I am amazed that you still have lungs left.

And Peter, oh God. Small, earnest, enthusiastic Peter, the one who could never conceal his feelings--it feels I've dreamed all about him being a spy for Voldemort and being in hiding all these years. Yet I know that everything is true, that you are innocent, and that I hated you needlessly for twelve long years. I've spent the morning re- reading my diary and regretted every hateful, bitter word I have written about you.

Oh God. I hope you can forgive me for making that enormous cock-up out of yesterday evening. There's no way I can make up for missing that crucial last dose of Wolfsbane and making you lose your only chance to freedom. If I had only kept my mind, Peter wouldn't have managed to escape. That thought is going to be with me for a long time.

**Tuesday, June 14th**

Dear Sirius,

Unemployed again. Strangely enough happier than I was when I started teaching at Hogwarts. The cottage badly needs a thorough renovation, but the old cliché holds true, there is no place like home. Dumbledore has insisted that I am entitled to a small pension after teaching for one year, so am a bit better off than before.

Ah, who am I cheating? Can't I just admit to myself that knowing about your innocence makes all the difference? I've already caught myself wool-gathering several times, thinking about how we could go about proving your innocence to the Ministry, but one step at a time. Helping you heal, getting you in some kind of shape, ought to be my first priority.

Snape was behind it, of course. He never could stand humiliation, even if it was only imagined humiliation, so he let it slip. I'm not likely to tell you in person--Dumbledore has managed to shame him into providing me with Wolfsbane hereafter, so from now on I'm well shot of the Ministry's full moon shelter. Don't you dare kill Snape, Sirius.

Harry told me the full story before I left Hogwarts--dear Merlin, what a narrow escape you had. I sorely hope I'm never going to endanger your soul in that way again. Hermione is just the kind of student who would have been given a Time-Turner, and there was some beautiful poetic justice in your escaping on an unfairly accused Hippogriff. Hearing that Peter had lived under my very nose for a whole year was quite a mouthful to have to swallow.

It felt good to get your letter, Padfoot. Even better to realise that I can still recognise your handwriting. Not that the Dementors would treat the prisoners like the former guards in the Tower of London-- their methods are more sophisticated--but one wonders sometimes.

Things otherwise as usual. Preliminary reports suggest that most of my NEWT students have passed their exams with flying colours, Oliver as well. I have been grading end-of-year exams like a good teacher, given Brooks a hand with the apple orchard. Trying hard to behave like a freshly sacked werewolf with his tail between his legs, instead of falling around people's necks, crowing in exultation because my best friend and former lover is innocent.

**Monday, June 20th**

Dearest Sirius,

Just back from the Glastonbury town library after trying to identify the outrageous bird that was tapping on my window yesterday evening. Where are you? Somewhere warm by the sea, I hope. There are hurricanes in the Caribbean, winter on the Southern hemisphere and the rain season is about to start in South-East Asia, and none of those climates ever suited you. Except perhaps hurricanes. I can imagine you laughing like a berserk in the midst of danger and destruction, your hair a frenzied wet banner in the storm, the devil- may-care gleam back in your eyes. Will I ever see you like that again?

I did a bit of shopping in Glastonbury as well--don't want the messenger to catch me unprepared the next time. Harry sent an owl after getting back to Surrey, and his letter gave me an idea. Admittedly, Oxfam clothes, basic toiletries, a pair of scissors, a razor and a pocket knife aren't the most glamorous of birthday presents, but I'm a bit rusty with the entire birthday business. At least there's chocolate there; a birthday in our dormitory never passed without chocolate. I bought all your old favourites as if I wanted to make up for twelve years--white chocolate with mocha mousse filling, dark with pistachio croquant or orange sorbet and marzipan, even the peppermint creams that I never understood the point of. Why do people want chocolate that makes you feel like you are brushing your teeth and eating chocolate in the same time?

I didn't know what to write on the card with the two puppies, either, but I hope it makes you laugh. I know it's your thirty-fifth, but it felt somehow rude to draw your attention to the fact that you have lost a third of your life to the Dementors. I finally settled for, "Happy Birthday, Padfoot."

**Wednesday, July 13th**

Sirius, dear heart,

Dumbledore sent me the Portkey yesterday along with a week's supply of Wolfsbane potion. I've packed the few garments I have that might suit the climate wherever you are and am moving about the place like a restless spirit, feeling like I'm seventeen again and we are about to walk down to the Prefects' bathroom. There's still half an hour until the Portkey activates, and I'm too nervous to do anything but write.

I hope you're not too shocked when I say I'm indecently thrilled and more than a bit nervous at the thought of being with you again. Some of it stems from Harry's letter and the distinct note of worry in it. Suddenly the boy has a guardian who is likely to care a lot about his relationships, but I found that I had no answer to his questions, no idea about how you are going to react to the news. For heaven's sake, Padfoot, try to stay calm when I break the news, that's all I'm asking.

I'm glad you liked the chocolate and that Dumbledore has arranged a wand for you; it has to feel like being given back a part of your body. But I don't know if I should laugh or cry at your complaint that the chocolate bars are too large. Don't be silly, Padders, the size of chocolate bars has to be the only thing that hasn't changed over the years. Same size as they used to be when you were wolfing down chocolate like bread. But I see your point, though it breaks my heart. Chocolate, symbol of a life beyond the shores of Azkaban, once taken for granted, now broken into thumbnail-sized pieces, slowly savoured with trembling fingers, because you never know when it might end.

One final reason to be nervous. "Happy Birthday" wasn't the only thing I wrote on the card. I added: "Your Moony" and immediately regretted it after the bird had flown away. I shouldn't have assumed that you wanted me to be your Moony again. We'll have to see.

It came as a shock to me to realise that you no longer remember what it felt like to make love in the middle of the afternoon when only mad dogs and Englishmen stir in the streets, picnic on a beach, feed each other peaches and melons in the shadow of the cedars, have chocolate in small squares among ancient palaces and cathedrals. It frightens me--what more did they steal from you?--but all the same, it gives me determination and a sense of purpose. I will give you back what I can, and one day, things are going to be straightened out and your name will be cleared. We will be going back there, first thing we do, and remake those memories, beloved, I swear it.

Miss you. Love you. Can't wait to see you.

The Portkey activates in one minute.


End file.
